Rain drummed against the roof of the Volvo, a steady, hollow rhythm that felt like the house itself was breathing. Frances Lemarr kept her hands locked at ten and two, staring through the blurred windshield at the gravel driveway of Summerhill. The stone gateposts were slick with moss, their familiar grey shoulders hunched against the Cotswold sky as if they had been waiting two decades for her to finally turn the engine off.
A figure emerged from the shadow of the porch, clutching a black umbrella that vibrated in the wind. It was Hugh, his silhouette as rigid and curated as the estate he had spent his life defending. He didn't wave or signal; he simply stood there, a vertical line of certainty against the chaotic sway of the weeping willows. He looks exactly like Father, she thought, the realization tightening the knot in her throat until it hurt to swallow.
She reached for the ignition, but a sudden wash of white light flooded the cabin. A second vehicle swung onto the narrow track behind her, cutting off any hope of a quick retreat. In the rearview mirror, Hugh’s silver estate car slows to block the exit, its headlights flaring through the rain.
